Ludicrous
by RedFeather96
Summary: The great consulting detective meets a certain actor while working on a case. He isn't impressed.
1. Cumberbatch'

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Believe me, if I owned Sherlock, the Sheet Scene would have ended _very_ differently ;)**

* * *

Sherlock disliked the man from the moment he first met him.

The first reason for this, although Sherlock would never admit it, was because they were the same height- within an inch if his observations were correct.

Sherlock, rather childishly, always enjoyed being the tallest in the room. It gave him a satisfying feeling of superiority, so much so that he often had to stop himself from smiling smugly during arguments with John, when his rather tiny flatmate would glare angrily up at Sherlock's scarf-height.

Mycroft was the only person Sherlock knew who could look down on him- in a literal sense, and the fact had always been an increased tension between them (and yet another reason to be arch enemies in Sherlock's eyes).

So, in short, Sherlock felt he had very good reason to feel both affronted and insulted by the man standing before him.

The person in question, had curly blonde hair, and very pronounced cheek bones. He was wearing an expensive suit, Westwood, Sherlock guessed. His shoes were equally pricey and the outfit reminded the detective all too much of James Moriarty- although it was clear that dress sense was their only similarity. This man clearly lacked both the intelligence and insanity to capture Sherlock's interest for more than a few minutes, let alone _days_.

'Hello, I'm Benedict.' The man said, with a warm smile. Sherlock did not return it. He had confirmed his earlier suspicions- it seemed that 'Benedict' also lacked the maliciousness and ruthlessness to be a criminal mastermind.

Shame.

Sherlock noticed the man was still smiling at him. It was rather infuriating. He was also holding out a hand- was he expecting Sherlock to shake it?

The detective snorted in disbelief and rather pointedly ignored it. It had taken him weeks to start returning Lestrade's handshakes- he certainly wasn't going to start with strangers.

No, Sherlock decided, this man had definitely not earned a handshake (and probably never would, Sherlock added, rather scornfully, in his head.)

He sent one of his best glares, and was satisfied to notice Benedict's smile fade. That was better, Sherlock thought. He didn't look quite so idiotic now, so ridiculously cheerful.

The downside of this was that John was now elbowing Sherlock, hard in the ribs. Soldiers were strong, Sherlock reminded himself, hiding his wince.

John was glaring now too. _Here we go, _Sherlock thought dismally, although he at least had a good enough sense of self preservation to refrain from saying it out loud.

Sherlock tried to study it objectively. He had obviously done something wrong again, and John's expression was angry? No, it was something else...the expression John always had after dates, and sometimes while on the phone to Harry...

Ah disappointment! That was it. Sherlock felt pleased with himself momentarily before remembering the situation. John was disappointed in him for being rude. Sherlock rolled his eyes- why was John so insistent on being friendly? A more sociopathic flatmate would definitely be more practical, Sherlock mused.

But then sociopaths were rarely came with their own revolvers (Sherlock would miss John's) and sociopaths probably wouldn't put up with Sherlock's experiments or violin as well as John did. Besides, he was becoming embarrassingly fond of his doctor, and Sherlock didn't really want to be bothered with finding another flatmate. Learning to live with someone else was not an appealing prospect.

No, John would have to stay, the detective decided. Even if it mean gritting his teeth and being polite to complete imbeciles.

Sighing with reluctance, Sherlock turned back to Benedict, who had been watching the exchange with a slight mix of bemusement and confusion.

'It's Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock greeted, managing a twitch of the lips (which he felt counted as a smile, at least). Yes, that was perfect, just the right amount of friendliness (very little). It would be enough to satisfy John, but it still made it clear that Sherlock did not want to be in this conversation.

'Pleasure to meet you Mr Holmes.' Benedict responded (far too enthusiastically, Sherlock thought). 'I'm a great fan of your blog.' He added with a nod at John.

_Wonderful. _Sherlock groaned internally. _Did no-one read proper books anymore? Was John really the best the literary world had to offer?_

He glanced down at the man in question, to find him mumbling thanks, and looking all too pleased with himself.

Sherlock mourned briefly for the future of libraries.

He was momentarily surprised, when John replied rather nervously to Benedict.

Nervous? It wasn't particularly obvious- only a brilliantly observant mind would notice the slight twitching of his left hand and the rose pink tinge to his cheeks- but the signs were there all the same. John was nervous? Why?

'I'm a big fan of yours too, actually.' John mumbled, clearing up the mystery. Hero worship, then, idolism, Sherlock confirmed. Again, why?

'Fan?' He queried, looking at John, but it was Benedict who answered.

'I'm an actor.' He clarified. 'I was meant to be working with Tara, when this awful business happened.' His voice became more serious, trailing off rather dismally. There was a hesitant silence as they each though briefly of Tara Dorton, the actress who had been brutally murdered that morning, with no weapons to be found and neither suspects nor motives for the killing.

It was one of the best cases Sherlock had had in weeks.

'Awful business.' Sherlock echoed, nodding, but there must have been something insincere in his tone, because he felt John treading on his foot, hard. He was being inappropriate, then.

'So, you're an actor?' Sherlock prompted, changing the subject in a reasonably polite way. That was sure to please John, he thought (... not that Sherlock relied on his flatmate's approval.)

He turned back to Benedict, and found himself rather annoyed for not guessing his profession immediately. He clues seemed blindingly obvious now; the stage make-up on his collar, the clear way he projected his voice, and stood unnaturally straight, as if he'd been trained. Not to mention, his presence at the crime scene (a film set) and also, that irritatingly photogenic smile.

The signs were everywhere; even John could have worked it out. Lord, John _had _known before him.

'Yes, I've been in a few plays, TV shows here and there.' Benedict said, oblivious to Sherlock's inner frustration. 'Cumberbatch? You might have heard of me?' Benedict added, somewhat hopefully.

Yes, Sherlock did recognise him now, he'd been in that ludicrous spy film that John had found captivating.

'Nope, sorry, doesn't ring a bell.' Sherlock replied, somewhat airily, giving his best confused face. John gave him another look, (clearly Sherlock's confused face wasn't his most convincing persona.)

'Sherlock barely knows how to switch on the TV.' John smiled apologetically at Benedict, who had begun to look rather disheartened. (_Good_, Sherlock thought coldly.)

'He didn't even know who the prime minister was until last week, so don't take it personally.' John added with a laugh.

Sherlock felt that it was a rather unnecessary implement to the conversation. He had already explained that reasoning at the time... Perhaps John hadn't heard him properly?

'Prime ministers change every few years anyway, and it's not like they have any _real _power.' Sherlock muttered, just to clarify. John smirked but said nothing. His flatmate was clearly bringing up his ignorance as a punishment for Sherlock being rude earlier.

This was unbelievably frustrating.

'It's useless information.' He continued, wanting a reaction out of John. 'I'd only have to delete it later.'

'Delete it?' Benedict questioned, and Sherlock glared in frustration. He was sorely tempted to snap sharply about the actor's recent ex-girlfriend, or slight hangover, but he restrained himself, rather reluctantly. 'What does he mean, delete it?' Benedict asked again.

How had this man gained so many female fans? Sherlock wondered angrily. Aside from the obvious good looks, he had no obvious assets. He was tiresome and far too curious for Sherlock's liking. Not to mention the smiling.

Perhaps John was getting fed up too, Sherlock thought hopefully, as the doctor dismissed Benedict's latest question with an exasperated wave and a 'don't ask'.

'We should go John.' Sherlock said, seizing the opportunity. 'The crime scene is waiting.' John nodded.

'Besides, I'm sure we can return for another _delightful _conversation with Mr _Cumberbatch, _if need be.' Sherlock added drily, unable to resist a disdainful sneer. This actor had a ludicrous name, Sherlock thought, somewhat hypocritically.

'Well, it's been wonderful to finally meet you.' Benedict said, with a well mannered smile. Sherlock noticed it was directed mostly at John.

'Pleasure's all mine.' The doctor replied, with one last handshake (Sherlock shuddered internally).

Acting was a stupid profession he decided. Full of stupid tall people, with stupid names in stupid films. And what did they do, but dress up and prance around and tell lies for the sake of 'entertainment'. Absurd.

And yet millions dreamed of acting? Why?

This thought did not annoy him as much as he'd expected though. Certainly there were millions of actors, but how many consulting detectives were there?

On his last count, he believed there had been a total of one. And he was very good.

* * *

Sherlock's momentary good mood was ruined when he saw that John was still smiling and looking pleased, even 52 seconds after the conversation. It was wrong. That look was supposed to be reserved for Sherlock. It was the look John was supposed to have when he received praise, or when he gazed up at Sherlock in wonderment. It was all wrong!

'He was dull and unintelligent.' Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but apparently he had misjudged, as Lestrade turned towards them, ducking under the police tape to join the conversation.

'Who's this?' He asked, raising an eyebrow, just as John muttered 'Don't even start, Sherlock.' In a very dark tone of voice.

'Benedict _Cumberbatch._' Sherlock sneered, unable to resist the argument. 'John appears to be a fan. Don't know why, seeing as he seems to be a complete moron.'

He didn't know what he had been expecting from Lestrade, but he found himself both disappointed and appalled as the DI assumed what Sherlock could only describe as a bashful grin.

'Oh, not you too.' Sherlock found himself complaining. This was getting ridiculous.

'What?' Lestrade retorted defiantly, although Sherlock noticed that he was blushing slightly. 'And actually, on this count, you're wrong Sherlock. I was talking to him earlier...' Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

'For the purpose of _investigation,' _Lestrade added pointedly. Sherlock very much doubted this, but allowed the man to continue anyway. 'He's actually pretty intelligent.' Sherlock doubted this too.

'Compared to your team, perhaps, but in the line up with the rest of the human race, he ranks fairly low down.' he snapped, exasperated.

'Yeah, I get it, he's no Sherlock Holmes.' Lestrade said, undeterred. 'But he's actually great to talk to. One of the most well educated, cultured actors I've met.'

Sherlock stared in disbelief. It seemed that the acting world was as lacking as the writing world.

'Not to mention, he's a looker.' John added, with a grin, which quickly turned into an embarrassed cough, as Sherlock glared. 'Not that I care.' He mumbled, with what was evidently meant to be a manful shrug, to show nonchalance.

Lestrade didn't seem to notice, and continued gushing (yes, there was no other way Sherlock could describe it.)'God, tell me about it.' He chuckled. 'I- I mean my wife- loves him.'

Sherlock decided this conversation had gone on long enough.

'She loves her tennis partner more.' He snarled, and feeling only slightly guilty when Lestrade's face fell.

'Pleasure talking, must dash, crime scene.' Sherlock finished with an unnaturally bright smile. Leaving John and Lestrade staring after him in shock as he strode over to the police tape.

He could hear them muttering behind him as he left. He determinedly ignored them. He told himself that it was all utterly unimportant. Why did it matter if Benedict Cumberbatch was 'intelligent' or good looking, or tall, or unusually named, or knowledgeable about current prime ministers?

It was all unimportant.

He wouldn't last five minutes against a serial killer, or a consulting criminal, or the woman, Sherlock thought smugly.

Despite this knowledge, Sherlock found it irresistibly tempting to put this theory to the test.

No, Benedict wouldn't last very long. At all.

* * *

**A/N. Please drop a review if you liked it. I wrote it all in the space of about an hour at about 2am, and it's not my usual style at all, so I'm not quite sure how it'll read, but let me know regardless. **

**I'm slightly tempted to do a couple more- with Martin & John, etc. but I'll see how the response to this is first :)**

**Thanks for reading. xxxx**


	2. Martin Freeman

John's stomach did a strange back flip when he saw the two figures standing in the doorway to Molly's lab.

This was difficult to explain, since men themselves posed no threat; they were both actors (a fairly trustworthy profession, John felt) and what was more, he had already met one of the men before, and found him to be most pleasant. Yet he couldn't shake the sense of dread that something awful was going to occur, most likely in the next ten minutes and almost certainly involving Sherlock.

Ah, there was the problem. Sherlock.

The last time the detective had met Benedict Cumberbatch his behaviour had been bizarre to say the least (even for Sherlock). In the few days since their first encounter on the Tara Dorton case (John had yet to come up with a name for it), he had aquired a number of strange habits, the most noticable of which being that he kept standing on tiptoes, and deliberately stretching as tall as possible. This was understandably enfuriating for a person of John's own height (which was by no means _small _or _tiny _or God forbid _cute). _But as usual, Sherlock had been oblivious, and continued stalking around at 6"2, muttering darkly about cheekbones and Westwood.

John didn't necessarily understand what was going through his flatmate's head, but contrary to popular assumption, he was not an idiot, and it was evident even to him that something was wrong. He hadn't been successful in finding out _what _precisely, but he had vowed to keep Sherlock as far away from actors as possible, just in case the next encounter knocked a few more screws loose in the brilliant detective's head.

So, in short, John found himself filled with dread at the thought of bumping in to both Benedict Cumberbatch _and_ Martin Freeman, with _Sherlock_, all in a confined space. It was bound to end in disaster.

On the other hand. There was the hobbit-fan part of John that was ridiculously, childishly excited.

He felt torn.

Was it really _his_ duty to stop Sherlock from meeting film stars? What harm could one meeting do? Just a short conversation...

The dilemma must have shown on John's face, because Sherlock smirked down at him with an all knowing expression.

"Too late, we're going now." He muttered, increasing his pace in the direction of the two celebrities. John resented the use of the word 'we'; the arrogant assumption that he himself had no choice in the matter. But, he couldn't deny, as he hurried after his flatmate, that this time, the word seemed completely warranted. John was definitely not staying behind and letting Sherlock go off on his own.

Not that he would be able to do much good; John couldn't quite disguise his instinctual impression that if Sherlock had a plan (which from the glint in his eye, he clearly did), then the situation was already way out of his hands.

* * *

Sherlock was disappointed within minutes of approaching the pair.

For some reason, Benedict Cumberbatch had made the pathetic excuse of going to find 'coffee' within ten seconds of Sherlock's arrival (the detective hadn't even had time to introduce himself to the other one). This had instantly ruined any ideas Sherlock might have had about publicly humiliating him, and it also meant that he was forced to listen to John chat to the short smiley man without a suitable target for glaring at.

He tapped his foot idly, mentally counting powers of 3.5, to stop his mind exploding with ennui as John chatted on. _How is the new film going? I'm such a big fan! Oh yes, it is dreadful about Tara... How are you coping? What brings you here? Oh, you read my blog? I'm so pathetically happy, even though we both know that my blog is filled with bad grammar and fails to describe the cases in a manner that objectively describes all the evidence, despite having been told by my brilliant and inspiring flatmate that the document needs more detail._

Admittedly that last point was only in Sherlock's head... but the fact of the situation was that the conversation was dull, and if there was one thing Sherlock hated above all else, it was unmistakably boredom.

He was just wishing for someone else to turn up and interrupt the conversation, when Molly rounded the corner, approaching her lab.

Her face broke into a huge smile, just as Sherlock struggled to hide his horror. Molly was the last person he wanted. The pathologist was about as likely to interrupt and let Sherlock escape, as she was to suddenly announce that she had fallen in love with a lesbian dominatrix and was intent on becoming a master criminal.

In other words, there was no chance. No chance at all.

* * *

What felt like hours later, the conversation was still dragging on. Molly had now joined in the idle chatter, and true to Sherlock's predictions, she showed no sign of wishing to dominate the conversation, allowing him to leave. Instead she kept chipping in sporadically, with what appeared to be _excitement_.

Sherlock could feel his spirits sinking deep into a pit of despair. This was a pointless, boring conversation. All he had learnt so far was that Martin and 'Cumberbatch' were here to have blood samples taken, to rule them out as suspects. Sherlock found this very idea ludicrous. He had already distinctly explained to Lestrade that the actors didn't appear to have a brain cell to spare between them, much less were master criminals, but his complaints had been cut off with protests of '_jealousy' _and '_ignorance'_ (Lestrade was lecturing _him_ about 'ignorance'!) and it appeared that he had decided to go ahead with the tests, against Sherlock's advice.

It didn't take a detective (let alone a _consulting _detective) to guess that Lestrade's decision had little to do with the actors; Lestrade seemed to worship _them._ No, it was far more likely that the DI had done this just to spite Sherlock, another ridiculous attempt to remind him who was in charge.

The thought did nothing to improve his mood.

* * *

His thoughts darkened and he began tapping his foot impatiently. This was so dull! He started observing the three people standing in front of him, searching for a distraction from the boredom (or for a guilty secret he could expose to make the conversation more interesting).

He started with Molly, since she was closest. There was nothing remarkable to note. She was wearing a rather nice shade of lipstick, and she had painted her nails a matching colour, but Sherlock thought that she had plaited her hair in a rather infantile style, and the cat jumper she was wearing did nothing to suggest sophistication. She was talking at her usual speed (unintelligibly fast), with her usual amount of charm (none at all).

It was hard, even for someone of his own paramount intellect, to understand Molly, Sherlock mused. There was something about the way she spoke too quickly, and laughed in the wrong places that made everything she said sound awkwardly indistinguishable. She kept fiddling with her hair and tugging at her jumper sleeves.

He put up with her because John seemed to like her, and Sherlock didn't know any other hospital staff who would put up with his demands. It was a well known fact that Molly was pleasingly easy to manipulate (especially because of the rather flattering but futile 'crush' she seemed to have developed) and even Sherlock had to admit that she could be quite tolerable _at times_.

Unfortunately, now did not seem to be one of those times.

She kept smiling too much, and blushing too deeply. And that jumper! The ridiculous cat's head was really beginning to annoy Sherlock now. Why was there a cat on the jumper? What was the purpose of it? Why couldn't it just be a pink jumper, sans cat? It really was ridiculous. Childish. Repulsive. _Cute._

She should burn the jumper, the detective decided.

* * *

To distract from his growing impatience, and destructive, cat-related schemes, he turned to analyse John instead, and was surprised to note that the soldier was staring straight back at him. He looked slightly annoyed, but not angry. It was an all too familiar expression.

It meant that John wanted Sherlock to stop doing something, that Sherlock wasn't aware he was doing.

The glare was exasperated and prompting... so it must be something John had mentioned to him previously. What was Sherlock doing? He scrolled through his thoughts, trying to summon all the recent conversations he had had with John about appropriate behaviour.

There was an alarming number.

John was raising his eyebrows now- a definite sign that Sherlock had broken a rule of some sort... Not a serious one... something to do with social situations probably...

Ah Rule 14! That was it! Sherlock felt very satisfied.

"Do you have a wife?"' He asked in his best 'curious but friendly' voice. He didn't really care either way, but John's Social Situations Rule 14, was about saying something every ten minutes in a conversation (apparently Sherlock could be 'intimidating and intense' when he stared in silence). It had been nine minutes and thirty three seconds, so Sherlock thought he might as well get it over with.

He'd done the right thing, because, John was nodding slightly, with a tiny approving smile. (Sherlock ignored how proud this made him feel.)

"Yes, I do actually, she's a lovely woman-" Freeman began until Sherlock interrupted unthinkingly.

"Ah, Yes- Short blonde hair, around 5'8, shoe size 6, wears Chanel perfume and pink powdered blusher." He said, noticing the signs and unable to resist commenting. He hadn't actually intended to stay in the conversation; just a quick input to please John, then back to the silence. But the opportunity to impress was undeniable. It was a sort of game he played with himself, testing his skills, seeing how many of his deductions he'd got right. And he was so _bored._

It was rather childish, he knew, but he enjoyed it immensely, and it was made all the more satisfying by the look of blank surprise on Martin's face.

People were always so shocked when personal information was revealed by strangers. It was rather amusing.

He was placing bets in his head on which response Martin would choose (_Are you a stalker? _Or _Bloody Hell, _seemed most likely) and was therefore disappointed when Molly opened her mouth and began to babble instead.

"Oh, Sherlock, I suppose you saw it too." Molly began, and Sherlock briefly wondered what _it _was. He doubted Molly was referring to the miniscule traces of blusher powder and the short strands of blond human hair on Martin's coat, yet Sherlock couldn't think of anything else that he had recently seen that could possibly be relevant to the current conversation. He waited for Molly to elaborate, looking impatient so that she might explain quickly.

"You, know, the magazine article, with all those facts in it, about Martin Freeman's life." Molly mumbled, blushing her familiar shade of crimson. "Amanda Abbington did a piece on her makeup advice and routines- you know, with the blusher. And more than that actually, there was all this stuff about her life at work, and a sweet story about her father- I think- plus there was something about shoes... what was it?" She paused for a moment to breathe, before continuing at the same unrelenting pace. "She wears sandals I think, but that's not really relevant anyway. The article was really interesting though- to me- although I don't know why it would be to you- not that there's anything wrong with you being interested- in fact, it's fine if you are- lots of men like fashion these days-" Molly stumbled around as Sherlock stared back blankly.

"Who's Amanda Abbington?" He asked.

There was a dawning light in Molly's eyes (Sherlock stifled a laugh- it was always so odd seeing other people's tiny little brains working) and she began blushing furiously.

"Amanda Abbington is Martin's wife." Molly mumbled slowly. Sherlock noticed she had stopped making eye contact, in that blatantly obvious way she always did when she was embarrassed. "You wouldn't know that, would you? Because you don't read fashion magazines, do you Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head wordlessly, having completely lost track of the conversation. Martin too, seemed speechless, staring at Molly with the _'Are you a stalker?' _look that Sherlock had predicted earlier.

"Oh God... sorry." Molly rushed and Sherlock could see John looking both pitying and amused at Molly's predicament. "I just thought that Sherlock must have read the article to find out all those facts, but obviously I wasn't thinking straight- I mean- he doesn't need to- he's Sherlock Holmes." She said, gesturing towards Sherlock with a strange sort of giggle and a miserable sigh.

Sherlock felt rather proud of this final statement, even if it did come from Molly. It was always nice to be in a class of his own- not merely 'clever' or 'observant' or even a 'genius'- but actually incomparable- just Sherlock Holmes. His smug mood was instantly ruined by the actor's ignorant response (he was almost as bad as 'Cumberbatch').

"So what if he's Sherlock Holmes?" he asked Molly, adding a 'no offence, mate' in Sherlock's direction.

It was rather rude, 'no offence' or not, Sherlock thought (and he wasn't usually particular about manners). He wondered idly if he could persuade Mycroft to make Martin less of a free man. A short stay in Pentonville would quickly teach him who Sherlock Holmes was; after all, the detective was responsible for putting half its inhabitants there in the first place.

"Well, Sherlock's amazing!" Molly exclaimed, before turning scarlet again.

Sherlock nodded in agreement and Martin raised an eyebrow, turning to John (as people often seemed to do) for a reasonable response.

"Sherlock's a detective." John said, with an exasperated smile. "He likes to show off sometimes."

"_Consulting _detective." Sherlock smiled thinly.

Martin nodded, (as did Molly, for a reason unfathomable to Sherlock).

"Right, well, I suppose that's pretty impressive." Martin said, with a strained smile. 'I was almost worried for a minute there.' John nodded sympathetically, with an eye roll that said _tell me about it._

* * *

"So, you have kids then, too don't you?" Molly asked, and this time she managed to sound relatively normal (Sherlock would have said 'non-stalkerish' but that wasn't a proper word.)

Martin seemed relieved at the more relaxed turn to the conversation. "Yeah, two- they're great."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the unimaginative adjective, but John couldn't help but smile. This man clearly adored his children and the doctor always found it nice and refreshing to be around people who displayed normal, caring emotions so openly. His own flatmate tended to only show his feelings during hostage situations, which John felt was often bad timing.

"I think I have a picture somewhere actually..." Martin said, rummaging around in his coat pockets, making John smile again. Normal people were so nice.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Children?" He queried, sounding bewildered, as if the idea of anyone forming attachment to such creatures was unimaginable.

John could have punched him.

"Sherlock's not great with children." He tried explaining, rather lamely. "Or with people in general, actually." He added.

No-one debated this statement.

"I've got two nieces," Molly smiled, breaking the silence. She had begun cooing at the photo Martin showed her. She had a slightly deranged look in her eye that Sherlock recognised from many experiences with desperate women in their thirties. John, however, seemed to think it was sweet. "I love children." Molly added, somewhat unnecessarily.

"You would." Sherlock retorted, the very idea of sticky fingers and squawky voices making him feel irritated. He imagined clumsy limbs breaking experiments, whining cries for food and attention, toys cluttering his flat. He barely suppressed his shudder of horror. "You must never let children into Baker Street." He warned John, who to his alarm, did not nod solemnly in understanding, but instead snorted.

"I don't think there's much danger of that." He said, drily with raised eyebrows.

There was a small silence as each tried to imagine any sane parent choosing to leave their child with Sherlock Holmes.

"No, I suppose not" Sherlock nodded, mentally deciding that it would be a good idea to continue acting inappropriately around any parents he might encounter.

The Children had to be kept away.

* * *

Sherlock was drawn from his thoughts by a sudden crash, as a figure stumbled into Molly from behind, causing her to fall forward arms waving in panic. The detective managed to catch her before she hit the ground, pulling her close to him as she emitted a small startled squeal. She made a second, odd little squeaky gasp as Sherlock promptly lifted her onto her feet again, setting her down firmly on the ground. He turned to the man behind her, who had begun apologising profusely.

"God, I'm sorry, are you alright?" Benedict Cumberbatch asked, frowning worriedly. Sherlock noted the two coffee cups spilt on the floor, and the wet patch slightly behind them, which indicated a slippery, freshly-mopped surface. Cumberbatch must have slid then. _Good_ thought Sherlock's inner monologue, although a second internal voice, which sounded remarkably like John's instantly scolded him. (Had he developed a conscience?)

No, he hadn't he decided; he felt inappropriately smug about the whole situation, especially as he watched Molly blush more, staring at Benedict Cumberbatch in shock. There was coffee all down her front. The cat jumper was ruined.

"I'm so sorry, I just didn't see you at all." The actor continued anxiously as Molly relentlessly gawped. Sherlock wondered if she had lost the ability to speak. The detective smirked, this would be fun.

"What on earth, do you think you're doing?" Sherlock roared, so loudly that everyone within hearing distance jumped slightly. Benedict gaped in shock.

John gave him a look that said _Don't you dare. Stop it now._ Sherlock decided to ignore him; his was too perfect an opportunity to miss.

"You could have killed her!" He growled instead, stabbing an accusing finger into the helpless actor's chest.

"What?-" He stuttered, looking unsure whether this was a joke or a genuine accusation. The glare Sherlock sent him seemed to clear things up.

"It was just an accident." He said, his voice uncertain.

"Oh, _just _an accident, was it?" Sherlock scoffed, waving his hands in the air above his head (he wasn't sure why he did this exactly, but he had noticed that people often took such actions when they were upset, and it certainly seemed to be convincing Cumberbatch.) "Would it have still been _just _an accident if Miss Hooper had been burnt with the scalding liquid you were carrying so carelessly? Or perhaps if she had hit her head, falling at an unfortunate angle, colliding with the hard concrete floor with a regrettably large force; damaging her cerebral cortex, therefore resulting in aphasia, amnesia, dysarthria, or alexithemia, or worse a permanent coma, or perhaps, even, if she were particularly unfortunate; an untimely, painful and ultimately unnecessary death."

He finished this speech with a pained gasp and a horrified expression to aptly convey his distress at Benedict's actions (It might have been slight overkill, but Sherlock always believed if you were going to do something, you should do it properly).

He turned to observe the reactions of his audience. Molly was looking very pale (G_ood, _Sherlock thought, _that would make it easier for the others to imagine her as weak and delicate)._John was looking very angry (Sherlock pretended not to see this.) Martin was looking very confused and slightly scared. But Benedict, Sherlock was thrilled to note, looked utterly lost for words, shock, worry, confusion and fear all flitting across his face rapidly.

Sherlock couldn't resist a triumphant conclusion.

"Well, I don't think the court would believe it was _just _an accident, do you?" Sherlock finished with a tight-lipped smile.

There was a stunned silence, as Benedict shuffled awkwardly, alternating between anxious looks at Molly (who had once again resumed her blushing) and frightened glances at Sherlock (who was, as usual, glaring). He also appeared to be silently pleading for help from the other two men, although John appeared to be too busy fuming to notice.

Martin was the first to speak.

"Well," He began softly, in a voice that reminded Sherlock eerily of John. "I'm not sure quite what you may be implying, Mr Holmes, but we all know that this was completely unintentional, and it could have happened to any of us."

"Except it didn't happen to any of us; It happened to Mr _Cumberbatch_." Sherlock hissed, until John cut him off, with an elbow in the ribs and a loud cough.

The detective did not appreciate this input at all, however he barely had time to voice his complaints before John was turning back to the two nervous actors with a forced smile and a loud 'we'd better get going.'

"Hmmm, Yes I suppose you're right." Sherlock nodded fervently.

"I am?" John muttered, sounding completely bewildered, as was so often the case. (_Bless, _Sherlock smiled mentally, although he had the good sense not to say it.)

"Yes, yes; No time to waste." He breezed instead, steering Molly by the arm. "We'd better get Miss Hooper here straight downstairs to A&E."

"Oh for Christ's sake.' John growled, as Sherlock strode off, tugging a rather surprised pathologist behind him.

John as left awkwardly apologising for a moment more, before running after them.

Why did this always happen? Couldn't Sherlock behave himself for one conversation? John would likely only meet (breathing) television stars once; and though he wasn't vain enough to worship celebrities, he hated the idea of people, especially talented, _famous _people thinking he was rude... or worse, a sociopath like his insane flatmate.

Oh, Sherlock had definitely ruined things this time- He hadn't even said goodbye, the doctor thought angrily. He must seem dreadful.

He turned and was half relieved, half worried to see that Benedict and Martin still hadn't left. It was now or never.

"Cheerio!" He called in a strange moment of desperation. He gave a strange little wave.

_Where had that come from?_ John scolded himself; he had planned just to shout 'goodbye' or 'pleasure to meet you' or something that would sound _polite, _and _friendly-_ not like a slightly deranged character from a 50s cartoon.

Bloody Hell, he thought as he turned away with a weary sigh, doing his best to ignore the startled and slightly fearful faces behind him. They thought he was insane.

A stalker, a psychopath and a lunatic. They had obviously made quite the impression.

They always did.

* * *

**A/N: I think I got slightly carried away with this one, but it was so fun to write that I couldn't resist. ****I'm not sure how in-character Martin is, since I don't know him personally (*sob*) but I tried to keep him as generic as possible, and just included the facts I know. That said, I don't have a clue what his wife's shoe size is, so feel free to correct me anyone! **

Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed, I will try to get round to replying, but I thought I'd submit a second chapter first. Please do leave feedback if you get the chance, I'm always very grateful, but I'm just happy that you've taken the time to read this.

Shell xx


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